The Truth Of Me

Where I’m Really At

Right before Christmas, when I was in the hospital, they found that I have a narrowing in my spinal canal and thickening in my spine. It’s something that can’t be fully corrected without surgery. For now, physical therapy is supposed to help slow things down, but every time I try to go, I end up having panic attacks — from being touched, from being there alone. Because of that, I haven’t been able to keep it up. Without therapy, it’s likely that surgery will be needed sooner rather than later.

My symptoms have been getting worse — my legs and arms feel weak, and I’ve even had numbness in my groin. I know that’s serious. My case is being monitored at the University of Utah, but I haven’t followed up since leaving the hospital. My doctors are already telling me to apply for Social Security Disability, and I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do.

On top of the physical stuff, my agoraphobia has been worsening. I can only handle being out in public for about 1–3 hours before I feel completely exhausted or overwhelmed. Being around more than one or two people at a time sends my anxiety skyrocketing. When I try to push myself into public settings, it always backfires, leaving me in a massive downward spiral of fear, panic, and exhaustion. I’ve gotten so used to being alone that one or two people at a time is all I can manage. Anything more, and I start to panic, sometimes needing to drink or do something just to take the edge off. Even simple errands, like grocery shopping, feel impossible — I hold it together while I’m there, then sit in the car afterwards, breathing, crying, trying to process everything.

It really sucks because I can sometimes manage if I have an emotional support human I trust — someone who can help me feel safe. But without that, I fall apart. Every time I’ve tried to build trust with someone — a date, a friend, a partner — it ends badly. I know I need connection, but it feels like I’m too broken for anyone to want to deal with. Facing doctors, hospitals, and appointments alone is crushing.

To make things harder, my therapy options are limited. Most treatments for my DTD (Developmental Trauma Disorder) aren’t available right now, except for one type that requires pair bonding — a deep emotional connection with someone I can trust. But when I was in the hospital at Christmas, it became clear that my ability to bond emotionally has been heavily affected. With untreated DTD, the emotional centers of the brain can dry up, meaning that even though I can empathize, I can’t fully connect. This makes bonding with anyone — emotionally, safely, deeply — extremely difficult.

Simply put, my brain doesn’t produce a sense of safety or peace on its own. I rely on real, safe connections with other people. Without that, anxiety, panic, and emotional shutdown take over. Pair bonding can’t be forced or rushed; it has to happen safely and organically. And because my emotional pathways have been affected by trauma, building that kind of connection feels nearly impossible right now.

Between the DTD, CPTSD, agoraphobia, spinal issues, neuropathy, and my overall anxiety, it all feels like too much. Most of my appointments have moved online because I can’t handle being in clinics or hospitals, and I’ve struggled to follow through with the Utah neurology appointments and physical therapy. My doctors say they can’t fully assess the state of my emotional centers until I’m in a different environment — somewhere that feels safe, where my nervous system can relax enough to see what I’m capable of feeling.

All of this is why I’ve been seriously leaning toward living in my car and moving from place to place. Fixed routines, traditional housing, or even just being somewhere for too long feels unsafe because I don’t have the emotional security I need. Being mobile allows me to control my environment, limit overwhelming triggers, and try to find spaces that resonate — spaces that give my nervous system a chance to breathe. This isn’t about wanting to be reckless or isolated; it’s a survival strategy. My brain and body are telling me: I need safety, autonomy, and space to process life.

I don’t share this for pity. I just wanted people to understand where I’m really at. The physical and emotional weight of everything — my spine, my nervous system, my DTD, my inability to bond, my panic and agoraphobia — has been crushing. But being honest about it feels necessary.